What You Want
by melliemellie
Summary: A memento of a past mistake unexpectedly brings about the possibility of a future Molly had finally accepted to be nothing more than a fantasy. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**What You Want**

This began as a quick one-shot on Tumblr, but I have since been inspired to add more to it, hence why I have decided to post it up here. I don't know how long it'll end up being, but I know it isn't going to become an epicly long story (unless the muse decides to take over), as this is my first dip into the world of Sherlolly fanfiction. I hope y'all enjoy :)

* * *

 **Part One**

"But what are you going to do about him?"  
"Molly, it's hard to concentrate when you're flapping."  
"Sherlock!"  
The detective let out a loud, frustrated sigh, before spinning on his stool, to face the pathologist. "Here I was thinking you cared about the lives of others," he remarked. "But, apparently, you'd rather talk about a dead man, than keep another alive."  
Molly glared, before raising one eyebrow expectantly.  
"Moriarty is dead. I saw him die. Whoever made that video is nothing more than a cheap imitator and not worth the trouble."  
"But what if-"  
"Molly," Sherlock warned.  
The pathologist went silent, but kept the same expression on her face. She was worried and the fact that Sherlock refused to take it seriously bothered her. Especially because, for him, disinterest was a means of hiding anxiety. He didn't seem anxious though. Why not?  
"Molly," Sherlock repeated, although his voice was quieter and the tone softer. "Nobody knows what you did. You're safe."  
"It's not me I'm worried about," she replied.  
"The only danger I'm in right now is boredom with this conversation." He span back around to face the microscope one more. "Now, we have work to do."  
Molly rolled her eyes, but chose not to push any further. He was as stubborn as his cheekbones were sharp, so she settled for walking over to the coat stand, in order to grab her purse.  
"Well, I'm getting a coffee," she stated. "Do you want one?"  
"Yes," he replied, without looking up from the microscope. "Black-"  
"Two sugars," she finished. "I know."  
Sherlock didn't say anything, but let out a quiet "hmm". Molly's hand reached into the left pocket of her green parka, fingers fishing blindly for the purse. When they brushed against something with sharp corners instead, her brow furrowed and she clasped the mystery object, before pulling it out for inspection.  
Regret washed over her the moment the item's identity was revealed. Sometimes, mysteries were better left unsolved. In her palm rested a small black velvet box and Molly had no need to open it to know what lay inside. It was an engagement ring; the one that had adorned her finger until a few months ago.  
"Oh." The word exited her lips before she even knew it had formed in her throat.  
Sherlock recognised the tone of her voice immediately. The pathologist may not have been aware, but, over the course of their acquaintance, he had learnt to gauge her moods by her voice, even when she tried to hide it. Something was wrong. Once upon a time, the consulting detective would have simply ignored it and carried on with what he was doing, but things were different now. Sherlock was different now. He blamed John Watson.  
"What is it?" He asked.  
"Hmm? Oh, um, nothing." She gave a quick, false, smile. Her eyes fell to the ring box as she started tapping it absently with her fingertips and her voice went very quiet. "Just thought I'd thrown this away, that's all."  
Sherlock knew what the object in her hands was and, for a moment, he was at a loss. The last time her engagement had been mentioned was after he'd received a rather hefty slap to the face and it resulted in a less than gracious remark regarding the relationship's failure . Since then, he'd assumed she'd moved on, as no mention was made about it again, but the subtle expression on her face displayed the conflicting emotions.  
Something stirred in the detective, but, as usual, he quickly quashed it. Of course she didn't miss Tom. Everybody knew he was a mistake, including his then-fiancée.  
So, why did she look so sad?  
And why did it bother him?  
Before he could stop himself, words were leaving Sherlock's mouth, if only to end the awkward silence permeating the room.  
"You did the right thing, you know."  
Molly, surprised by the unexpected sound of his voice, looked up sharply and took a moment to process what he had said.  
"I…I know," she said eventually. "It's just…a shame."  
Sherlock froze and his grip tightened around the microscope's eyepiece.  
"I mean, I'm glad we're not together anymore," she clarified, unable to stop the rambling that was about to spill out, as she slowly walked back to the table. "It never would've worked. It began for all the wrong reasons. But, it _should_ have; I wanted it to. He was the ideal man and life with him would've been…" She sought for the correct word. "Pleasant. Y'know, the dog walks and dinner with in-laws. It was all so…normal."  
Molly paused for a moment and her gaze became distant, like her mind was retracing all the memories she and Tom had made together. It bothered Sherlock and he started feeling uncomfortable, especially with the gentle pangs that accompanied every mention of that other man. It was getting harder to ignore and the detective could begin to feel that it was only a matter of time for him. He couldn't ignore what was happening to him forever.  
Molly, apparently snapping out of her reverie, took a deep breath and smiled, but the man beside her could tell the joviality was hollow. Had he done this to her? Was he the source of his friend's unhappiness? That notion didn't sit well with Sherlock and he fidgeted a little in his seat, torn between the emotions he always tried to bury, that had a pesky habit of rising to the surface.  
"Well," she said. "Never mind. All for the best, they say."  
"Is that what you want?" Sherlock asked suddenly.  
Molly , who had been about to turn and walk away, stopped and her eyes returned to the detective. His head was turned to face her, but the eyes were rooted to the ground at her feet. His right hand still gripped the eyepiece of the microscope. She noted that a couple of the fingertips were going white and wondered what was wrong, thoughts of her own troubles disappearing in light of his.  
"Normal?"  
Molly considered his question, but wasn't entirely sure of the meaning behind it. She also had absolutely no idea how to answer. The pathologist didn't know what she wanted. Of course, the man before her had been someone she'd wanted for a very long time, but had recently accepted that it was an impossibility. Sherlock would never be able to give her what she wanted, even if-in the unlikely event-he felt the same.  
"I…" She had to consider her answer and it was difficult to put into words. Sherlock was waiting patiently, his posture and direction of gaze unchanged. "I want…" she began. "I want…real."  
Sherlock's eyes moved upwards, finally meeting hers and a moment passed between them, one that would ensure things couldn't quite return to the way they were.  
"Molly-"  
Sherlock was interrupted by the deafening squeal of door hinges, as someone entered the lab. Molly almost jumped out of her skin and span to face the intruder.  
When her attention returned to Sherlock, he was once again looking through the microscope and she could tell he was now absorbed in the details of his latest case.  
The moment was gone and neither knew if it would ever come back.


	2. Chapter 2

**What You Want**

Gosh! I wasn't expecting such a sudden response to this story! For some reason, I can't reply to the reviews I've reviewed for this story. Hopefully that'll get sorted soon :/ Either way, thanks so much for reading and reviewing and I hope this next part is as enjoyable as the first :)

* * *

 **Part Two**

 _Is that what you want?_

Those five words had circled Molly's mind for hours. How could such small words carry so much weight? That short sentence seemed to be overloaded with meaning, and left her feeling overwhelmed. She hadn't been able to concentrate and deciphering the intent behind the question was becoming a mystery only the great Sherlock Holmes himself could solve, which was absolutely _not_ an option!

Confusion and disbelief had been the overriding emotions engulfing her since that momentin the lab, but they were beginning to give way to frustration and anger. Molly was so sure that he had been trying to tell her something in his own way. The way he'd looked at her; she'd never seen anything quite like that in his eyes before, but it was so fleeting that the young woman wondered if memory was playing tricks on her. Perhaps she had completely misread the situation? Part of her wanted to simply ask him, get it out in the open and solve the conundrum once and for all, but, for all her desire to discover the truth, part of her was...afraid _._ And it wasn't so much a fear of being wrong, but of being _right_.

What if he _had_ meant those words the way she thought? What the Hell would they do then? Sherlock Holmes couldn't be in a relationship; he didn't know how! One look at his friendship with John Watson was proof enough of that. The detective clearly held his blogger in the highest regard, but so much of Sherlock's behaviour towards John sometimes left her wondering how the doctor could stand it. For a start, Molly had absolutely no desire to lose several days a month due to _experimental poisoning_! Then there was the possibility that the man she had craved for so long wouldn't be able to sit upon the pedestal she had made for him. What if they decided to give it a go and everything went horribly wrong? Could she bear it? Surely, it was better to keep him as a friend and bear the weight of what-ifs, rather than give in and lose him forever.

This was, of course, assuming Sherlock would even know how to act upon the wish to be in a relationship. No contact had been made since sharing with her that look and, in truth, she'd known there never would be. However much he had grown as a human being in the last few years, there was still that icy wall that never came down. Yes, the once immaculate surface now had a couple of cracks in it, but it was still standing, nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

**What You Want**

 **Part Three**

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock."

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock blinked rapidly, as he begrudgingly vacated his mind palace. Slowly turning his eyes to the left, he saw John watching him expectantly. As Mrs Hudson wasn't present in the room, it could only have been the doctor who was responsible for the interruption.

"Wakey, wakey!" John said. "I said that I'm leaving and there's someone at the door."

"Hmm," Sherlock replied, his attention still not a hundred percent in the present.

"I'll just let them in, shall I?"

John's voice dripped with exasperated sarcasm, but Sherlock hadn't the patience to acknowledge it. He was too busy ruminating. The previous day's conversation with Molly dominated his thoughts. How had it even come about? One minute, he was about to receive an extremely appreciated beverage, the next, he was so close to hinting towards a notion he'd sworn to never entertain, that he almost needed to slap a hand over his mouth in order to keep the words from spilling out. Luckily, very little had been said. Unfortunately, the proverb 'actions speak louder than words' had proven to be all too true and far too much of himself had been revealed simply with a look. A look. It had been a very dangerous one and, if not for the interruption, who knew where it might have led?

Sherlock didn't want to think about it. He had always managed so well before. Molly's attraction to him had never been a secret or a distraction in the past. If anything, it had often provided an advantage. However, during his two-year absence, the backbone he suspected Molly of always having decided to make its presence known and she was a far more confident woman. Ever since his return it had become more and more difficult to simply place her at the back of his mind. Something about Molly was bringing her to the forefront and it wasn't simply a childish case of wanting what belonged to somebody else. After all, that somebody else was no longer in the picture and his feelings on the matter hadn't changed.

 _Feelings_.

Sherlock returned to the small living room of 221B, when the quiet, polite clearing of a throat reverberated through the air. The detective saw a young woman stood in the doorway, waiting patiently, hands resting in the pockets of her cream coat.

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock mumbled an apology, before motioning to the settee and asking her to begin. As he took the seat opposite, the woman was initially taken aback by his brusqueness, but quickly (and correctly) assumed it was simply his demeanour and made herself comfortable on the seat.

She (he hadn't bothered to ask her name; unnecessary data as it was) began detailing her problem of a missing relative, a sister, who hadn't been seen for almost a week and her frustration with the police was the reason she was forced to turn to the consulting detective. If only she had known how often her frustrations had been shared by the man she was speaking to.

As he took in the details, something about her caught his eye. There, decorating her left ring finger, was a plain band of white gold, being twiddled by the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. It was unconsciously done, suggesting habit and he tried to ignore why it was proving to be so fascinating. It had absolutely nothing to do with the case the client was presenting him with, but it had the potential to help him with something else. Something, which, in his mind, was _far_ more interesting.

Palms pressed together beneath his chin, Sherlock interrupted the young woman. "How long have you been married?" he asked.

Completely thrown by the sudden question, she took a moment to reply. "U-um, about five years…"

"And you're happy?"

Confusion furrowed the poor woman's brow, as she wondered what the Hell it had to do with finding her missing sister.

"Well?" he prompted, annoyed by the slowness of her reply.

The woman's frown turned from confused to irritated, but she had nobody else to turn to, meaning she had no choice but to comply. "Yes. I am. What's this got to do with-"

"Why?" he interrupted a second time.

"Why what?" She didn't bother hiding her irritation this time.

"Why are you happy?"

"I dunno, I just am," she said, before attempting to move back to the reason she'd come to the detective. "Can we get back to-"

"Forget your sister for now," Sherlock requested, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "This is more important."

"More important?" she cried indignantly.

"Yes," he said. "Your sister is not missing, simply out of town for a while. You will hear from her before the end of the week, I guarantee it. Now, if we could get back to _my_ question. Why does your spouse make you happy?"

The client didn't respond, preferring to spend some time glaring at Sherlock in equal amounts of fury and disbelief. When that received no reaction whatsoever, she had a choice of either storming out of the building, or answering Sherlock Holmes' questions. It took a while for her internal battle to settle itself. Eventually, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat.

"Why do you want to know about my marriage?" she asked.

"Research," Sherlock replied.

That received a raised eyebrow, before she sighed and finally gave an answer. "My husband makes me happy, because I love him and he loves me. Does that answer your question?"

Sherlock didn't respond immediately, as certain words she had just spoken caught his attention and refused to allow any space for other thought. His palms, still pressed together, travelled up his face, to rest beneath the tip of his nose.

"And that's enough, is it?"

"What, love?" she clarified. "Well, yeah. Usually."

"How can it be?"

"Well, I…I guess I love him, so love being around him. It's hard to explain, really. It just… _is_."

It just…is. How eloquent, yet apt. It seemed even those who had found it couldn't really explain how it worked. Sherlock felt his hopes rise, before chastising himself for even having hopes in the first place. That sort of thing wasn't for him, as he had told countless people over the years. All that mattered was the work. Or, so he said. Because, no matter how vehemently he swore off sentiment, it always ensnared him in the end. It had done so with John, with Mary and even Irene. It had forced him to commit murder not so very long ago and he knew there was only so much longer he could make everyone believe he was an emotionless machine.

This made his current predicament all the more difficult. Surely it would be nothing more than a distraction, detrimental to his profession to finish what had begun yesterday. Worst of all, it could even _hurt her_. He'd seen the lengths Moriarty and Magnussen were willing to go to, so how far could others go? Bringing John into the firing line had been accidental; finding a flatmate was the only option at the time. But, to deliberately get close to someone, knowing what could happen? Sherlock didn't know if even _he_ was that selfish.

Sherlock suddenly got to his feet. The woman on the sofa watched him, wondering what on Earth might happen next.

"Thank you," he said, heading for the door and holding it open. "You have been most helpful."

"O-oh, really?" She stood and made her way to the exit. "But-"

"As I said," he interjected. "Your sister will contact you before the week is out."

He could tell she didn't quite believe him, but she left anyway, probably happy to be away from such an oddball. Sherlock swung the door shut, before letting his eyes absently scan the room, whilst his consciousness drifted away towards the long wooden corridors of his mind palace.


	4. Chapter 4

**What You Want**

 **Author's note:** Hey everyone! This chapter is far longer that the previous three, so apologies for that, although, with the content of this chapter, I'm hoping you'll all forgive me :)

As always, thanks for the review, faves and follows.

* * *

 **Part Four**

Molly was nervous. This wasn't a common occurrence for the pathologist. Despite her placid and friendly demeanour, which was often mistaken for timidity, she wasn't a particularly anxious person. If anything, she was pretty confident. A woman would have to be, with her quirky sense of style. How many could pull off an oversized bright yellow bow, after all? Molly kept trying to tell herself there was no real reason to feel nervous, that the butterflies spinning in her stomach were entirely unnecessary, but it didn't help in the slightest.

Nothing had _actually happened_ , she kept reminding herself. There was a look, but that could have easily been misread and, since Sherlock made absolutely no effort to acknowledge said moment afterwards, there was nothing to suggest he ever would. There'd been no contact in the two days which had followed and there was nothing unusual about that. Cases had often kept him away from the lab for far longer stretches of time.

"Behave, Molly," the pathologist scolded herself. "There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

And, with that, the young woman grabbed her coat and left for work.

0

Sherlock was already in the lab, when Molly arrived. His coat hung on the stand and he had a large stack of papers balancing precariously on the table in front of him. As she removed her own coat and sought a clean lab jacket, her eyes kept flitting over to the detective. He was thoroughly engrossed in whatever lay on the glass dish beneath the microscope, but it didn't stop Molly's pulse increasing each time she looked at him. At one point, she thought his eyes were going to meet hers and quickly span, so her back was facing him, heartbeat racing. Eventually turning back round, she saw that Sherlock was in exactly the same position as before.

 _Oh, for goodness' sake_ , Molly screamed internally. It was getting ridiculous. She either needed to talk to him or simply carry on as usual, just as _he_ was. Deciding on the latter, Molly grabbed her papers and, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table to Sherlock, proceeded to look through the day's itinerary.

"Morning," came the familiar baritone from behind the microscope.

"Morning," Molly replied cheerfully. "How are you?"

"Fine. Yourself?"

"Good, thanks."

That was as far as their small talk ever got, which was a massive improvement in comparison to a few years ago. It was his sign of making more of an effort with people and she appreciated it, but knew not to take it too far. There was still only so much chit chat the detective could stomach.

The lab was rather quiet that day and the pair really didn't exchange much more than a sentence or two throughout, both busy with their own projects. Sherlock didn't even ask for Molly's assistance, which was uncommon, but not unheard of, so whatever he was working on, he obviously had under control.

It wasn't until almost the end of Molly's shift that an actual conversation began. She had just washed her hands, having recently concluded her last post mortem of the day and was beginning the tedious job of filling in paperwork, probably her least favourite aspect of each working day. She quickly became focused on the task, however, so as not to make any mistakes and ended up so engrossed in case notes, as well as her own thoughts, that she failed to notice Sherlock's transition from sitting opposite, to peering over her shoulder.

"Natural causes?"

Molly gasped in surprise and jumped when she saw Sherlock so close beside her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I didn't see you." Noting just how little space there was between them, Molly forced her eyes back to her notes. "Um, yes…er, heart attack. Poor man."

"Hmm."

Sherlock nodded and turned to walk away. Except he didn't. Several long moments passed and he was still beside her, although he faced the opposite way to her, his back gently leaning against the table she sat at. Molly felt some kind of tension rising in the air and couldn't keep her attention on the paper before her any longer. When her eyes rose to meet his, it felt like a bolt of electricity to the heart. He was doing it again, giving her _that_ look. He needed to stop. Molly didn't think she could bear it once more and, with no sign of any convenient interruption this time, she knew she couldn't simply ignore it, either.

"Are…" she began, her fears from the other day still haunting her. "Are you al-"

"I'm not normal," Sherlock declared suddenly, his eyes rooted to a distant spot on the floor.

His response took her aback and, in light of the awkwardness, Molly fell to her default mode: humour. "Um…well, I think we already knew that."

He didn't laugh. Nothing new there.

"I can't give you normal, Molly," he continued, face as pensive as before. "I can't do dog walks and dinner dates or any of those… _domestic_ things."

Molly remained silent, trying to control the rising panic, as she realised where the detective's speech was going.

"I do not own a house or a car. I don't even have a steady job. And, sometimes, what I do can be…dangerous." His face shifted slightly, changing Molly's view from a side profile to three-quarters, although his line of sight remained where it was. "You've seen the things John has endured."

What had begun as a declaration was now becoming a warning. Sherlock was listing all the reasons she should avoid him and, in that moment, Molly wasn't sure whether to hit or kiss him. At the very least, she was forced to bite her bottom lip, to keep it from forming a wide grin. However low her expectations had been, the pathologist would be lying if she said she hadn't hoped for this moment to come.

It had always been the dream: Sherlock would enter the morgue in typically dramatic fashion, all bouncing curls and billowing coattails. He'd declare his undying love and affection, Mr Darcy style, before whisking her off her feet, out of the morgue and back to 221B for a wonderful evening of…

Well, Molly needed to stop there, before the daydream forced her to forget the unbelievable reality currently unfolding.

"I cannot give you the things you want. There's only one thing I can offer, which I have been told will be enough."

When Sherlock's eyes finally met Molly's, the woman was locked in place. Hell and high water couldn't have moved either of them and both were suddenly aware of how much more difficult it was to locate the oxygen in the room. A period of silence fell between them and, when the suspense finally got too much for her, Molly sought elaboration, but her throat went dry and she found it impossible to get her voice any louder than a whisper.

"What is that?" she asked.

Sherlock mentally prepared himself to answer and Molly saw the physical process. His chest swelled with the deep breath he took and he straightened himself to his proper height, squaring his shoulders, as though facing a terrible adversary. In a way, he was. This was all very sentimental and Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment. At least, he never used to.

"Love," he finally murmured.

Molly became numb. Her entire mind and body shut down, as one simple, monosyllabic, four letter word overwhelmed every inch. Never, in all their years of acquaintance, had she heard him use _that_ word in _that_ way and the notion of it being used in reference to _her_ was an event she'd refused to entertain even in her wildest imagination. It was too incredible and unbelievable a possibility. But…it had just happened.

"Molly?" Concern creased the detective's brow and he leaned towards Molly, hand lifting, ready to wave in front of her eyes, to see if she was still with him.

"Y-you…" she stammered, her voice still hoarse and quiet. "You…love me?"

"Mmhmm," he confirmed, lowering his hand.

"Me?" she double-checked, eyebrows rising slightly in disbelief.

"No," he teased. "I mean the _other_ Molly Hooper who works here."

A sudden bout of stupefied laughter escaped Molly's lips. "Since when?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure. One day I just…was."

She released another chuckle. "For how long?"

"A while."

"I see."

Molly bit her bottom lip again, this time in uncertainty. What was to happen now?

"May I kiss you?"

Molly's eyes almost fell out of their sockets. "W- _what_?"

"The idea doesn't appeal to you?"

"Wh-wha-no! I mean, yes, yes it does. I just…" she licked her lips, feeling rather flustered, as her cheeks grew hot and very, very pink. "I wasn't expecting you to..."

"To what?" he demanded, feeling the uncomfortable tendrils of embarrassment slip around him.

"To…I dunno, ask permission! No one else was ever this formal. And to think it's come from you of all people."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he enquired, ready to take offence.

"Well, it's just that you never really ask for anything," she explained, hastily. "You just usually do it."

Sherlock looked away for a moment, before a small smirk curved his lips. "Hmm…I do, don't I?"

Molly frowned, recognising the tone and she wondered what thoughts might be running through that unfathomable mind, but, before the worry had chance to settle in her brain, Sherlock pitched forward and pressed his lips to hers. If a simple look electrocuted her heart, then a kiss did something Molly wasn't sure she would ever recover from. The contact between them was soft, but firm and it had every single nerve ending alight. She couldn't think and the shock was so overpowering that, rather than enjoy what was happening, she was having a hard time even believing it.

The contact ended as quickly as it had begun and their faces parted, but only by a couple of inches. Molly was afraid to open her eyes, scared of what she might see if she opened them. Worried, in a small, bizarre way, that, when her eyelids rose, she would discover that it was all a dream. Well, if it was, she didn't to wake up quite so soon and, without thinking, reached out for Sherlock's face to bring their mouths together once more.

The kiss was longer second time around and the intensity was heightened by the fact that Molly had regained enough sense to actually respond to Sherlock's touch. Their lips moulded together and their arms wrapped around one another, as the detective finally gave in to sentiment. It proved to be far more enjoyable than he had anticipated and left part of him wondering why he had waited so long.

The pair's lips were more hesitant to part this time, but when they did, foreheads connected instead, as both inhaled deeply. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to see Molly still had hers shut. What was she thinking? It was hard to deduce a person when you were barely inches from them. She was biting her lip again, though and a spark of panic ignited inside him. Was she unhappy? He moved his head back a little further, to get a better view of her face, but he was still too distracted by his own baffling feelings to be able to properly understand hers.

His hands moved, travelling up her arms, to land either side of her head.

"Molly?" he murmured, his voice quiet and slightly husky.

No response. He called her name again and, this time, he was answered with a soft "Hmm?" Molly's eyes still didn't open, though. Her tone, however, was nothing short of blissful, which certainly helped to alleviate his worries.

"Are you going to open your eyes at any point this evening?" he enquired, starting to see the humour in the situation, now that he was a little more relaxed.

Gradually, those honey brown eyes flickered open and, when she was met with icy blue, an involuntary grin spread across her lips. It lasted for one long delightful moment, before she realised where she was and her face grew as hot and red as molten lava. Her eyes dated away from his, searching the floor, before giggles erupted.

Sherlock frowned. "This is normal, I presume?"

Molly covered her mouth with her hand, in order to stifle the laughter. "Oh, Sherlock," she chuckled. " _Nothing_ is ever normal with you!"

The laughter was infectious and, without even realising, he started smiling, too. The detective had wondered if her mirth was a good thing, but, he was laughing too and _he_ felt great. This was all very new and there would be so many things to get used to. He felt oddly excited about that.


End file.
